Apothecary
by Frederick Grace
Summary: Potion: A liquid mixture that is medicinal, poisonous, or magical. To Harry and Draco, potions may end up being far more than that. To Harry and Draco, these potions may be fate. Mostly canon, with AU incidents. Starts in First-Year, eventual slash.


**Disclaimer:** Characters owned by J K Rowling.

**Summary:** Potion (noun): A liquid mixture that is medicinal, poisonous, or magical. To Harry and Draco, potions may end up being far more than that. To Harry and Draco, these potions may be fate. Mostly canon, with AU incidents. Starts in First-Year, builds up to eventual slash!

**Warnings: **Violence, emotional trauma, slash - not too graphic, but still undeniably there.

**Apothecary **

**Skele-Gro**

Draco Malfoy was not impressed.

Not only was he having the worst Thursday of his life – due to an unlucky combination of bad hair and History of Magic – but Potter and his Gryffindor cronies were wreaking havoc in the hallway, blocking his way to dinner. He sighed, and beckoned to Crabbe and Goyle. A couple of measly lions weren't going to stand between Draco and his beloved dessert. His two henchmen grunted in acknowledgement, and crackled their knuckled menacingly. Draco cleared his throat, and raised a single white-blonde eyebrow.

"Well, well. Look who it is! Potty and the Weasel!" Weasley had already turned an impressive shade of purple, and Potter was glaring as fiercely as was possible for someone who was scarcely even five foot tall, and had glasses the size of his own head. Draco sneered, and stuck out his chin, stepping forwards slightly. "I know you think you're King-Of-The-World, Potter, being the Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Die, and all, but really, the corridor is for everyone you know!" Potter was spluttering now, and Draco had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

"What the hell, Malfoy!" Ah, Weasley had regained his voice. Lovely. "We're not even in the way, just walk around us!" Draco sniffed, and waved a hand.

"No. I don't want to be any closer to you than humanly possible – After all, I've heard rumors that your Gryffindork stupidity is actually contagious. Can't be too careful!" Potter blinked, and seemed to be fumbling for a response. Weasley just ground his teeth. _Imbecile!_

"Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?" Said Potter slowly. "After all, I think we'd all simultaneously commit suicide if we found out we had to share a Dormitory with _you_." Draco blinked. A witty retort from Potter? Maybe today wasn't such a waste of daylight after all! He laughed coldly.

"Oh, hilarious, Potter. As if I'd ever set foot in Gryffindor Tower! After being blinded by the undoubtedly hideous _red and gold_ décor, I'd choke on my own vomit at the stench of the _muggleborns_. Tell me, Potter, is that why you were Sorted there? So you'd feel at home, surrounded by the lovely, muggle filth? Does it remind you of that lovely muggle _family _I hear you've got_-_"

Draco never got to finish his sentence. Potter let out a snarl of anger, and leapt forwards, a blur of black and acid-green, and shoved him backwards. Weasley shouted a warning and dove after him –and judging by his yells, Draco guessed Crabbe or Goyle – or both – had reacted admirably. Draco, however, was in no position to congratulate his fellow Slytherins on their brilliant use of physical violence, as he himself was engaged in some kind of highly undignified muggle wrestling. He wound a hand into Potter's tousled mop of hair, and twisted _hard_. Potter yelled, and simultaneously elbowed him in the face and kicked him in the knee. Draco lost his balance, and stepped backwards – into thin air.

He yelped, terrified, and reached out blindly for something to grab onto – which just so happened to be the writhing, spitting, cursing wildcat that was Potter. Draco felt almost _smug_ as Potter's green eyes widened noticeably behind their glasses, and his face went white – but then they were both falling through nothingness, and smashing into marble step after marble step, the world spinning in a sudden upside-down blur of pain and candlelight and Potters robes all in his face, his own fingers digging almost viciously into Potter's skinny upper arms.

They landed with a crash; Draco sprawled on top of Potter, both boys whimpering in pain. "Mal-foy!" Draco looked up slowly, wincing as his neck let out a spasm of protest. Potter's face was a very peculiar colour, and his breathing sounded funny. Draco frowned, but still didn't move. His shoulder felt like it was on _fire_. "Getoff! Can't breathe!" Draco's shaken mind finally pieced together what Potter was trying to say, and he rolled over, letting out a moan of agony as his shoulder hit the marble floor.

He lay still for a while, his ears still ringing, his stomach still heaving unpleasantly. He shivered, and pressed his palms flat against the floor, his mind hazy with pain. He wondered dimly what had happened to Crabbe and Goyle, and whether they'd been too busy beating Weasley to a pulp to notice that he'd fallen head-over-heels down a flight of stairs. He didn't move until Potter made another strange sound – a cross between a gurgle and a croak, and Draco decided that he really, really had to look and see if Potter was worse off then he was – and whether or not he'd be too injured to play in the Quidditch match at the weekend. After all, he'd just _destroyed_ his shoulder – Merlin knows he needed something to laugh about!

His blearily prepared insults died on his lips, however, when he saw Potter's face. It was whiter than the Bloody Barons – and if possible, even more bloody. Except, this blood wasn't silvery and pearlescent. It was _red_, a deep, dark red, almost black, dripping away in little rivers of crimson, spilling from the corners of Potter's mouth and streaming from his nose. So, Potter really _was_ worse off – and strangely, Draco didn't feel the least bit triumphant. He edged forwards, wincing as he realized that, yeah, his left leg was pretty much screwed too. "Potter." His voice sounded thick, and weird, and something hot and wet was dripping over his eyes, getting in the way. "Potter, you dead?" Well, hell. That made no sense at all. Potter laughed, an eerie, bubbly laugh.

"'Fink so." He grunted, and his green eyes flickered, rolling wildly back into his head.

"Oh. Damn." Draco breathed, before collapsing back to the floor, his blurry eyes dimly registering the echoing footfalls of someone running, and a woman, screaming, before everything flickered into an uncertain kaleidoscope of darkness.

Draco slowly, slowly opened his eyes, scowling as bright white lights sent a bolt of searing pain shooting through his head. He sat up slowly, and looked around. He was in a long white room, filled with beds. The Hospital Wing then. Not heaven. He let out a long sigh of relief, which seemed to attract the attention of the nurse. She bustled away from the bed next to Draco's, frowning sternly as she noticed his upright position. "Mr. Malfoy, you'll lie back down if you've got any sense!" The room did seem to be spinning horribly, so Draco decided that it was probably a good idea, and sank back into his pillows. He tried to ask what had happened, but his mouth was dry and sticky, and all that came out was a mumble.

Madam Pomfrey seemed to know what he meant, though, and patted his arm in what he guessed what supposed to be a comforting gesture. "Not to worry, Mr. Malfoy. You had a nasty fall down a moving flight of stairs – shot right off the end of it too! You cracked your skull, dislocated your shoulder, fractured your elbow, broke your left leg… Nothing I couldn't fix! I'm going to be keeping you in overnight just in case, so you may as well go back to sleep. Draco blinked, and scowled, and mustered up enough saliva to scowl, and complain loudly about the situation.

"I don't want to stay here! It's all white and painful! Why can't I go back to my Dormitory?" So apparently, painkillers turned him into a whiny little five year old. "Wait 'til my father hears about this!" He spat. Pomfrey rolled her eyes, and handed him a glass of water.

"Don't be daft, Mr. Malfoy. Your father has already been informed! Didn't you hear what your injuries were?" Draco blinked slowly, and took a sip of water, spilling a little onto his blankets.

"My… My father knows?" Pomfrey nodded exasperatedly.

"Of course! He arrived almost immediately after Dumbledore sent the House Elf to inform him – in a proper state, demanding to see you, the staircase, the person responsible…" Draco grinned, and Madam Pomfrey tutted loudly. "I don't know what you're smiling about! He seemed most displeased once we discovered the reason you fell! Picking a fight at the top of a staircase indeed! You might be a First-Year, but you've been here long enough! You should have more sense!" Draco scowled, and rolled over, discovering that his shoulder no longer hurt. In fact, it felt rather like his whole arm and torso had been transfigured into a large, squishy cushion. He bit back a laugh, and was just about to drift off into a rather pleasant haze of drug-induced sleep, when he remembered.

"What happened to Potter?" Pomfrey turned around, her face pinched with disapproval.

"I'm sure you will be delighted to know that he was far more severely injured than you," she said acidly, and Draco frowned. _Time for the irresistible Malfoy charm to make an appearance then…_

"Please, Madam Pomfrey!" He said, widening his eyes, and schooling his face into a properly apologetic expression. "It was all just a big misunderstanding, I just want to know if he's alright!" She fell for it, hook, line and sinker, her face softening.

"Well, alright. He'll be just fine, but he's in for a rough night of it! The poor boy broke most of his ribs – one shattered, and pierced his lungs, so it had to be removed completely. He's all dosed up on Skele-Gro, so don't be alarmed if he seems to be in pain later on tonight. It's just the medicine doing its job." Draco nodded, and bit his lip. _Pierced his lungs? Merlin above, that was worse than I thought!_

"So," He ventured timidly, "will he be able to fly on Saturday then?" Madam Pomfrey glared at him.

"Oh, for heaven's sake! Was that what this was? Some sort of scheme to keep the boy from flying? I've never heard anything more dangerous, irresponsible – or downright selfish in all my years! Just wait until Professor Dumbledore hears about this!" Draco made a noise of protest, but the irate nurse had already swept from the room, leaving Draco alone with Potter.

Draco peeked over at the other bed, half expecting to see Potter still covered in blood and gore. However, the other boy looked pretty much the same as ever – minus his glasses. His face was clean and pale, and Draco could see his lighting-bolt scar, still red and angry after all these years… Draco frowned, and as his eyes closed, too heavy to stay open, he couldn't help but wonder – _Does he remember it? His parents being murdered, the Avada-Kedavra, the Killing Curse? Does he… Does it still hurt? _As he drifted off to sleep, his mind was filled with thoughts of Potter, Potter yelling, Potter hitting him, falling through the air, landing on Potter, Potter's pale, bloody face, Potter dying…

_So this is a nightmare…_

The second time Draco woke up, it was pitch black. Night-time, then. He sat up, and reached blindly for his wand. Something had woken him from his weird, dream-filled sleep, and he wasn't surprised to discover it was Potter. The other boy was muttering in his sleep, twitching, whimpering in pain. Draco sighed, and looked around – but Pomfrey was nowhere to be seen. _Great_. He thought sulkily. _Now I have to play messenger boy! Just wait until I tell mother…_

He hauled himself slowly out of bed, and was relieved to find that the room didn't rock too badly when he stood upright. He took a few steps towards the Matron's office, which was just past Potter's bed, but his vision started to swim, and he found himself sitting down heavily on Potter's bed. He frowned. Up close, Potter looked more green than white, and he was all sweaty. Draco grimaced in disgust, but it soon faded to uncomfortable-concern, as Potter let out another whimper, one of his small, thin hands pressing up against his chest as though he were having a heart attack or something. Draco sighed, and shook Potter's shoulder lightly.

"Hey, Potter! Wake up! It's just the Skele-Gro!" Potter remained firmly unconscious. "Potter! You're having a nightmare or something! Potter, it's me, Malfoy. Potter! Harry!" The word felt strange in his mouth, but it did the trick. Potter sat bolt upright in bed, knocking Malfoy to the floor. He let out an undignified squeak of protest, and was about to yell at Potter for being an idiot – when a single glance at Potter's face showed him the Gryffindor was still fast asleep.

"Mummy…" Potter mumbled, before he flopped bonelessly back down to the bed, his blankets pooling around his waist. Draco was torn. If it had been anyone, _anyone_ else but Potter, he would have been howling with gleeful laughter. Imagine, an eleven year old boy, calling for his Mummy! But, well… Potter didn't _have_ a mother, so it really wasn't that funny. In fact, now Draco thought about it, it was rather sad. He tried to imagine his parents being dead, and him having to go and live with a bunch of muggles… He swallowed and blinked hard. Even the _idea_ of it made him sad. He shook himself firmly, mentally berating himself for such pathetic Gryffindor _feelings_, and scrambled up off the cold floor.

He was about to clamber back into bed, when Potter once more caught his eye. The boy was shivering now, and Draco rolled his eyes. "You're so useless, Potter." He drawled, and reached out to pull Potter's blankets back up to his chin. "I don't want you waking me up again with your pathetic moaning, do I?" He muttered, by way of excuse.

This time, when he toppled into his still-warm nest of blankets, nothing disturbed him, and he drifted off into the soft, blue-black comfort of a deep, dreamless sleep, untroubled by thoughts of Gryffindors, or his father, or Potter.

Or Harry.

**Author's Note: **So, that's first year! As you can probably tell, my AU versions of the boys' years at Hogwarts are going to be – if possible – even more dramatic, and ultimately a touch darker as well.

As for the layout, it'll be approximately one major potions-related event per year. Other than the specified events, it should be assumed that their lives progress as in canon.


End file.
